The Heroic Pursuit
by Demand Truth
Summary: America's been feeling a little down lately, but the promise of a fun afternoon spent with England livens his spirits. Poor, England, though...will America ever realize how strongly he feels about him? USUK, FranCan, Modern Day
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Heroic Pursuit

**Author:** Demand Truth

**Summary: **America's been feeling a little down lately, but the promise of a fun afternoon spent with England livens his spirits. Poor, England, though...will America ever realize how strongly he feels about him? USUK, FranCan

**Genre/Rating: **Romance/Humor, Mature readers only, please.

_**Chapter One: In Which Our Hero is Strangely Dispirited**_

He couldn't tell you where he was exactly, probably somewhere in Nebraska, judging on the humidity and the smell of the corn. The view was neither spectacular nor uncommon—just miles and miles of corn, from sea to shining sea. He lay in a field that had been partially sheared like a bleating sheep, barefoot and clad in frayed jean shorts with his broad chest bared to the sun like a sacrifice.

Beneath him, the dirt was damp and hot at the same time, and a few flies hovered in the air above him, like fat black UFOs. His bluebonnet eyes stared into the perfectly cloudless sky, obscured only by the flight patterns of the insects—his own, private air show. He thought about narrating it ("Fly Doolittle goes for the outside loop, diving at 300 mph!") but he was too lazy at the moment to even speak.

_'I should go to the moon again,'_ America thought wistfully, his mind lovingly recalling the cylindrical contours of Apollo 17. There was something fantastic about outer space. He could get away from everything up there—wars and poverty and education reform and _politics_ and people that didn't even call themselves Americans but rather said things like "my mother's side is French, and my father's side is German." He wanted to escape from himself, sometimes, when they said things like that.

There was no money for vacations to the moon these days, though. It was bad enough he was hiding from the World Nations Meeting in a cornfield in the middle of nowhere, feeling all mopey, knowing he wouldn't be found because, quite frankly, most of the world forgot these fields existed. They saw him as Washington D.C., where he built big monuments that he never got around to painting, or New York, or Los Angeles, or even as Vegas when he was a little tipsy.

But there was more to him, so very much more, than his big cities and his bustling capital. In fact, they were really only a very small part of him. The majority was this. Acres and acres and acres of empty space, and not even that was big enough to contain him, because he needed the sky above him as well.

He wondered, sometimes, if any of the other nations ever spent entire days just lying in fields... and not because they were trying to kill each other, but because fields were nice places to spend time. He liked to lie in the grass just like he was and build models in his head. Sometimes they were as detailed as blueprints, and sometimes he just thought of big sheets of metal and crisply fluttering swathes of cloth. The other nations, with the possible exception of England, thought he was stupid, and by their definition of the word, he probably was.

But he knew he was lying in a field of Dent corn, named such because of the shape of the kernels, and he knew that a storm was coming soon, because scents carried better on the wind when moisture collecting in the air acted as a conduit. He knew his land, and the weather, and (for the most part) he knew the culture of his people, which was no easy feat since they were all _over_ the place in every possible way conceivable. Oh, and he also knew that he worked hard, harder than he was given credit for usually. So, he didn't feel too bad for skipping the meeting today to lie in his fields, because he didn't get any time off these days unless he stole it like a thief.

He wondered, though, what they would say about him when he wasn't there. He imagined China would take over the meeting, because China had been changing lately, becoming a little pushier and a little more demanding. India, too, was chomping at the bit to be heard and America...America just wanted to spend the day baking in a corn field. Let them have their meeting of the minds without him. After all, he only contributed nonsense anyway.

He didn't really take any of it seriously, not anymore.

America dropped his forearm over his pretty blue eyes and exhaled forcibly, pushing dust and debt and decay out of himself for just a moment, like expelling great lung-fulls of cigarette smoke. The need to breathe again forced him to suck it all back in, where it weighted down his chest and made him feel _old_. No wonder England was grouchy all the time. America suddenly felt weary, and annoyed, and overworked and overstretched and...hungry.

They'd be having catered food at the world meeting. Though America had once given the job to McDonalds just to piss everyone off, today they nations were likely munching on mini-Subway sandwiches with sides of fruit salad and bags of baked chips. America alternated between loving the health craze and being utterly sick of it. But right now he was not thinking of working out, nor of delicate little sandwiches. He'd skipped breakfast and he wanted something satisfying and hearty. He began walking through the rows of corn, until his blackened, bare feet pressed against little rocks and slivers of concrete. A highway stretched before him, seeming to go nowhere. America stood on the shoulder a bit, stretching his legs in long, limber movements before beginning a light jog.

He thought again of the meeting he was missing, and picked up his pace. His feet slapped hard against the hot cement and his own heartbeat thudded in his ears. Sweat beaded on his lightly tanned skin and began to stream in small rivers (the Rio Grande, the Mississippi, and the Platte) over the shining planes of his chest and back. He pumped his legs harder, really feeling the burn now, noticing but not seeing the scenery of Nebraska slip past him in a blur of corn husk green. After running hard for about twenty minutes, he found himself standing in the shadow of a metal sign that read: Welcome to Thedford, Population: 211.

As he walked into town, he stopped at pickup truck parked along the highway, the back of it full of produce that was wilting slightly under the rays of the sun: grilled sugar and butter corn, as well as some cucumbers and potatoes in dusty cardboard boxes. America decided to have his appetizer there, and fished some cash out of his jean pocket. The farmer's son manning the truck took the money and gave him his change, as well as two ears of grilled corn and the assurance it was fresh—just cut the day before. America thanked him and left before it occurred to the boy start asking questions. After all, it wasn't everyday that a strange man came running up the highway on a hot day seemingly desperate to buy some sweet corn.

America left the dusty truck, munching happily on his grilled corn, idly wishing he had butter to accompany it. He tossed the empty husks in the waste bin outside a small eatery called the Arrowhead, nodding in a satisfied way to the two old men sitting on the porch of the restaurant in their rocking chairs. Unsurprisingly, he was the only customer in the place. The waitress, a sweet looking lady in her mid-forties, came bustling out of the back kitchen and took in his appearance without qualms.

"You look hot. Let me start you off with some ice water, sugar," she said. America nodded eagerly, plopping into a seat under a slow-moving fan.

"Thank you, mam. I apologize for not having much on," he replied. The other nations would have gaped to see him so respectful—hell, England probably didn't think he was even capable, but America knew and appreciated the friendly ways of his country folk and took on different mannerisms when he was out of the big cities.

"Don't you worry about it. It's too darn hot out there to keep much on. This place is a humid mess before a storm rolls in," she replied from the depths of the small restaurant. She returned briskly, though, with a tall glass of sweating ice water. America thought longingly of sweet tea and vowed to spend his next day playing hooky in some little Texan town where he could nap in the shade of a big old barn after feasting on barbecue and drinking sweet tea till his gut burst.

"Thank you," America said again, accepting the glass and pressing it to his forehead first before taking a big, deep swallow.

"Do you need a menu?"

"Do you serve cheeseburgers?" America replied. She smiled at him.

"The best in Thedford, honey. It'll be out in just a minute. I'll make it a big one to put some meat on your bones."

America grinned into his ice water, happy at least that in his own country he was considered skinny, even if all the willowy, thin Europeans made him feel like a fat ass. Maybe he should take after Russia and start calling himself big-boned.

Perhaps curious, though slow to move, the two old-timers finally made their way inside and took a table nearby.

"Where you coming from?" one asked, adding after a moment, "I haven't seen you around here, but I feel like I recognize you." America gave all his people that niggling feeling that they somehow knew him, if he or she could just strain their brain hard enough.

"I'm just passing through. I hitchhiked for most of the way here."

"You travel light," the other man observed. He had a grizzled beard, and he wore a stained, white T-shirt under his suspenders. America took a sip of water to delay having to respond a moment, and finally replied.

"I didn't part on good terms with the trucker. Lost my pack."

"That's a shame. Sorry to hear it. You look young, boy, too young to be hiking across the country with not even a shirt on your back. It's this damned recession, though. Young people can't find work these days," the man without the beard said. Despite the heat, he was lighting a cigarette. The waitress returned, bringing the two old men drinks, already knowing their preferences.

She kissed the one with the beard on the top of his hat before she breezed away and said, "Glad you finally came inside, dad. It's too hot to sit out on that porch." The old man turned his head after her, allowing America to glimpse the POW pin shining proudly from the side of his battered baseball cap.

"Thanks for your service, sir," America said, waving towards the man's hat. He hesitated for a fraction of a second and then added, "I just got back not too long ago from a deployment in Iraq."

Instantly, any distrust eased from the old men's faces and they smiled at him, one of their own. Perhaps they thought they could understand him better. They looked at him and decided his story: back from the battlefield to find a country with few jobs, especially in the little cities and villages like this one. Nothing to do but roam the highways, searching for that unidentifiable something that all young men search for, in various ways, until they learned to ignore the itch or grew too old to scratch it.

But America did not grow old, and he'd been searching for that _something_ for what felt like forever. He'd thought after the second World War that he was searching for England, because things had never been the same since the Revolution and it was one of the few painful memories he had that he could not gloss over in his mind. He'd tried to make good with England, and flushed with their joint success after WWII, it hadn't been that hard to rekindle the friendship, but even with a strong ally America still felt a little...empty.

The old men were talking to him.

"I got shot down over Yugoslavia...or maybe it was Czechoslovakia? Hell, I can't remember. But you know the funniest thing? As soon as I landed those villagers all came out and stole my damned parachute—wanted it for the silk. I busted up my leg in the landing pretty bad. Got disability for it when I got home, but it ached something awful in that German POW camp in the winter. Nearly froze to death and all we ate for six months was potatoes. Heh, leaving Nebraska I thought I'd never want to eat corn again in my life. Coming back, you'd never seen a man so grateful that we didn't grow potatoes!"

The old man's friend smiled wryly, suggesting to America that he had heard this story many, many times before. America grinned indulgently and twirled his thumbs through the moisture on the outside of his glass. He thought of Germany, who was in his country at that very moment, likely demanding order in the meeting. Or maybe he didn't need to without America there to make it loud and chaotic and ultimately pointless.

It was strange that America dealt so regularly with nations that his own people would be very glad to never see hide nor hair of again. If he offered the man next to him an all expense paid vacation to Germany right there on the spot, he'd probably laugh him out of the restaurant. The Europeans wondered why Americans cared so little for the rest of the world, and America thought this was partly the reason: the only time most of the older generation of Americans had visited Europe was when their planes were shot out of the sky.

"What about you, boy? You give those Muslims hell?"

America's heart spasmed painfully for a moment and he drained the rest of his water. Sometimes the blind prejudices of his own people made him breathless with disappointment.

"No. Just a lot of poor, dirty kids that didn't know why we were bombing them to hell and back. War has changed since your time. It's not as simple as it used to be. I love this country, I love it more than anything, but sometimes I don't understand it," America said hollowly.

The old men were quiet for a long moment, and the waitress brought his burger. America looked at it hungrily, but his appetite was strangely gone. He chewed reluctantly on a fry. The fans whirled overhead and the sun beat down on the grungy glass windows.

"You know, son, there's nothing wrong in this country that can't be cured by what's right about it. Just be brave and keep your chin up. We've survived worse, and we'll survive this."

America saw the truth in the man's wisdom because he _did_ remember sometimes (though it was a difficult; as he liked to keep history buried away beneath layers of blueprints and superheroes in his mind) but he did, every great once in awhile, take a mental trip into the past, like Indiana Jones cautiously creeping into some looming black cave.

And when he did, he'd remember the Revolution, or the dust bowl, the Great Depression, and the hell of Vietnam. The memories would come like clips from Hollywood, and sometimes he was the lead actor and sometimes he wasn't. It was painful, and he never gained any wisdom that lasted more than a few hours, and so America tried not to do it overly much. He lived in the present and he daydreamed about the future and he had no use for the past because he didn't play a very big role in it, in the grand scheme of things, as the Europeans were always pointing out.

But the old man was right. Things had been worse before, much worse, and they had only gotten better because America and his people bounced back from whatever was thrown at them, determined to be free and happy or die trying.

America stood rather suddenly, slamming his hands on the table in determination and tossing all the cash in his pocket onto the table.

"I really needed to hear that, so thanks, but there's some place I need to be right now!"

America pushed away from the table, but on second thought, doubled back and grabbed the burger. He'd eat it on the road.

"Bye, guys!" America called to a confused waitress and the two startled, old men before leaving the Arrowhead in Thedford, Nebraska, sprinting with the speed of a Looney Toon all the way to the capital.

**AN:** Honestly, I know this chapter was kinda boring. Sorry! I just wanted to establish that America has been feeling a little down lately, and I wanted to go inside his head a bit to show that he's not a total idiot...since he will return to his usual plucky idiocy in the next chapter at the meeting and I don't want to portray him as a total airhead, though he kinda is, lolz.

When America is watching the flies buzzing about him, he references the pilot James DoLittle, who is famous for (among many other things) pulling off the first Outside Loop in a plane, previously thought to be fatal, and for bombing Tokyo in the beginning of America's involvement in WWII.

"China and India were getting pushier" - It's believed by some that they'll be the next world Superpowers.

The old man in the diner's quote is adapted from something Bill Clinton once said.

Thedford, NE is a real town in Nebraska. I've never been there. If you're one of the 200-something people that live there and wish to correct me in any of my purely imagined descriptors of the Arrowhead, which is also a real place, feel free.

I love reviews, like most writers, and they do encourage me to churn out chapters faster. England makes his appearance next! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **The Heroic Pursuit

**Author:** Demand Truth

**Summary: **America's been feeling a little down lately, but the promise of a fun afternoon spent with England livens his spirits. Poor, England, though...will America ever realize how strongly he feels about him? USUK, FranCan

**Genre/Rating: **Romance/Humor, Mature readers only, please.

_**Chapter Two: In Which the Hero Heroically Disrupts the Meeting**_

America gleefully ignored the flustered stares he got as he streaked (almost literally) like a speeding rocket through D.C. He reached the building where the conference was being held (nearly 1500 miles spanned in about an hour of hard running) and burst into the meeting room sweating and grinning like a fool. His glasses were fogged up and he was still shirtless and barefoot, and added to the sweat was a sticky layer of dust and grime on his skin.

Sure enough, the meeting looked like it had been boring as hell without him. Germany stood at the front of the room, and there were some notes about North and South Korea on the dry erase board—neither of whom were in attendance. America thought that was a shame. He rather liked South Korea and despite his overstretched budget, he'd told him he'd be happy to help him out if his sister's boss started throwing bombs around.

"Any leftovers from lunch? I grabbed a burger on the way here but I'm totally starving again!" America announced, volume on high. Papers began rustling and the other nations began shifting about uncomfortably. Germany cried a little inside as the order collapsed.

America stretched like a cat, popping some discs in his spine and filling the room with the scent of sweat and energy. England was shooting him a sour look, and America had no way of knowing if it was because he didn't like the way other nations were eying his bare chest rather appreciatively (cough cough France), or if it was because he wished America had worn deodorant. America could never really read England's looks, which ranged from 'America-why-are-you-such-an-idiot' to 'Please-stop-talking-before-I-gag-you-with-a-scone'.

Just to be cheeky, America flashed him a jaunty salute as he retrieved a plateful of little sandwiches, scarfing them down two at a time. Japan watched him torn between being impressed and horrified.

"America! You are nearly _zwei_ hours LATE. The meeting is in your own capital!"

"Take it easy, Germany," America took another big bite and his words were a little muffled, "I had stuff to do." A few nations discreetly rolled their eyes. America chugged a bottle of water and (much to England's displeasure) claimed the only unoccupied seat directly next to him. Noticing how England had been sitting apart from the others, America grinned and said teasingly, "Hey, no man's an island, England."

"I quite literally _am_ an island...and you smell terrible. For god's sake, America, you're not even dressed!"

"I woulda missed the whole meeting if I swung my the house to get my uniform...and since when are you an island? I thought you were next to France," America said. He played dumber than he was most of the time, and so it shocked the hell out of everyone when he had a rare moment of brilliance. America got a particular thrill of enjoyment when he did that.

"I'm not dignifying that with a response," England retorted hotly, all prim and proper when America managed to rile him up. And America did so at every opportunity because, well, he had to make these meetings interesting somehow. Speaking of which...

"Thanks for getting everyone warmed up to the Korea issue, Germany, but we don't really need to discuss it more 'cause I got South Korea's back. He's a cute little guy. I'd hate to see him get all blown to hell...so I'm totally on it."

"Oh, _brill_ of you America. Now the South Koreans can sleep safe and sound tonight knowing you're 'totally on it'...whatever the bloody hell that means," England grunted.

"Isn't America 'totally on you,' England? What _does_ it mean?" France jibed. England reddened predictably but America redirected his ire by ruffling his hair.

"Easy there, Cheerio. You'll bust a vein." America ignored England's look of pure loathing, just as he'd ignored France's teasing about he and England's 'special relationship' for years, and pressed the speaker button in the middle of the table.

"_Yes? How may I be of assistance?"_ An aide asked quickly on the other end.

"This is America. Bring me a T-shirt and some flip-flops from the gift-shop, would ya? Thanks, buddy."

"_Er...y-yes, Sir, right away!"_

America ended the transmission and pushed his chair onto its back two legs. Everyone was staring at him. He grinned disarmingly. England shoved his chair and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor.

"HEY! What was THAT for?" America bellowed, climbing back into his seat. England sat smirking in a satisfied way.

"_That_ was for giving me a ridiculous nickname. You may call me England, or Britain, or Arthur, if you must. If you call me _Cheerio,_ or any other inane nickname again, I shall be forced to declare war. You have been warned."

Panting, the aide appeared in the doorway with a T-shirt still bearing tags and the requested shoes. America sprang out of his seat to get them, nearly bowling England over in the process, and ripped off the tags with gusto. He pulled it over his head, and then peered down to see the design as he slipped on the flip-flops. It was the flag, which was unsurprising considering it probably came from a tourist trap gift shop in the lobby, and proclaimed boldly, _These Colors Don't Run_. France drolly raised an eyebrow.

"Of course zey do not run. That is why your nation is fat," France quipped. America, however, just flexed showily in the rather form-fitting shirt, earning himself a light blush from England.

"Don't be jealous, France. It's just more cushion for the pushin'." America had the audacity to wink at England, who decided around that point that he was never coming to a meeting ever again. Ever. _Truly. _America knew full well the other nations wondered about them, and he knew it made England ever-so-uncomfortable, so of course he stoked the fire every once in awhile just for giggles.

"Can we PLEASE get back on track?" Germany bellowed. America hummed his national anthem and sauntered back to his seat, thumbs hooked in his pockets, looking ridiculously out of place in such casual wear while all the other nations wore crisp suits. He dropped into his chair with a sigh, stole a pen from England (merely to twirl on the tips of his fingers) and nodded politely at Germany.

"Well, get to it. What's next on the agenda?"

America (as usual) was ridiculously grateful when the meeting was over. He stood up and stretched, pleased that his morning road trip had cured him of his melancholy funk.

"Got plans, England?" America asked, baby blues hopeful. England cast him a dark look beneath his heavy brows and proceeded to neatly place papers into his briefcase.

"Not as such, but..."

"Great! We've still got loads of daylight left. Let's go ride the trolley or something. We haven't hung out in forever."

"Ride the? N-no, no I'm afraid I don't have time to waste on..."

"It's not a waste of time! Come _on_, England, we've been so busy over in the Middle East we've hardly gotten to just hang out. Now that it's winding down, you don't have any excuse!"

It was true enough. Both nations had been extremely stressed as their rather unpopular bosses had ordered them about every which way, searching for weapons that didn't exist. (At one point, as they poked through some filthy cave together on a rare joint assignment, England had commented, "We'll find the holy grail before we find any bloody weapons!" Which set America to giggling and quoting Monty Python for the next month until England was _quite_ ready to go home and forget the whole mess, 'special relationship' be damned, thank-you-_very_-much.)

"America, it's not that I'm still annoyed with you over our joint mission..."

"You were annoyed with me?" America asked, utterly clueless. On the other side of the table, where France was still collecting his things, there was a very French-sounding snort. England face-faulted, but recovered with impressive patience.

"...as I was _saying_, if you'd _kindly_ let me get a word in edge wise, I am no longer annoyed nor aversive to the idea of spending time in your company, but I brought along work that must be done. I planned to spend the afternoon in the hotel finishing it up."

"I know!" America beamed, "We can go have fun and relax for a bit, and then I'll help you do your work so you get it done twice as fast! Aren't you glad you've got a hero around to save you from spending all afternoon cooped up with boring papers?"

"Oui, _Angleterre_, are you not ever so glad?" France echoed with cruel amusement. England flicked him the V, only to earn a cutely puzzled look from America.

"Why are you flashing him the victory sign? Oh! I get it! You were hoping I'd ask you out today, huh? Well, a hero never disappoints! Let's go!" Without so much as letting England grab his briefcase, America tugged the smaller nation out of the conference room.

Had America lingered just a little longer, he would have heard France say to Canada, "It is about time that _fou_ American asked _Angleterre_ out on a date, no? Too bad he's probably too _bête_ to realize that is what he has done." Canada merely blushed lightly and politely refrained from joining in on teasing his twin. Secretly, though, he hoped perhaps America would finally get the hint about England's feelings for him. One could only hope, since he didn't think it was smart to meddle in such things. Since he knew which hotel England was staying in, he courteously collected England's briefcase for him, intending to drop it off in the lobby. He shot a painfully shy, half-longing glance at France's retreating back, and muttered quietly to himself.

"England's not the only one who's been waiting, _mon cher_," Canada whispered glumly.

From under his arm, his bear queried innocently, "Why would he notice you?" Canada's head fell tragically and he gave the bear a squeeze, needing the comfort, coincidentally choking off the bear's second question of, "Who are you again?"

_'No_,_'_ Canada thought glumly, _'France is just as clueless as my brother. He won't ever notice how I feel about him.' _

Feeling quite melancholy, Canada flicked out the lights of the conference room and left as quietly as he had come.

**AN: **I think most of it's self-explanatory, but here are the translations in order of appearance: _zwei_ – German for two; _Angleterre_ – French for England; _fou_ – French for crazy; _bête – _French for dumb; _mon cher_ – French for my dear.

Since this is a present day fic, I had to address the Iraq/Afghanistan Wars, though I'm trying not to get too preachy/political about it. But, for those of you who aren't aware, England was the only ally that went to war with America in Iraq, likely because of the two nation's 'special relationship' (google it, so sexy), but both nations were a bit dismayed to find no weapons of mass destruction. From polls and what not, it seems to be the general consensus that the British people thought the Iraq war was pretty pointless and wanted to end it much sooner than the Americans did, who eventually began to feel the same way. So, in this fic, that whole historical backdrop is condensed into America annoying England in a cave somewhere with Monty Python quotes until he wants to go home early. XD

The V sign (palm facing inwards) is considered a rude gesture in England. In America, regardless of which way the palm points, it means Victory or Peace. As you might guess, there have been many 'oops' moments regarding this, such as when President Bush II (god help him) thought he was flashing the peace sign at a bunch of Australian farmers who were protesting U.S. policies when, in fact, he was essentially flipping them off. I imagine that didn't do much to end the protest. -_-;


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **The Heroic Pursuit

**Author:** Demand Truth

**Summary: **America's been feeling a little down lately, but the promise of a fun afternoon spent with England livens his spirits. Poor, England, though...will America ever realize how strongly he feels about him? USUK, FranCan

**Genre/Rating: **Romance/Humor, Mature readers only, please.

_**Chapter Three: Our Hero and his Sidekick**_

America's capital was a fun place, with plenty to do. It was a rather warm summer day, though, so it wasn't long before England carefully removed his business jacket and rolled up his white shirt sleeves.

"If you're hot, we can get you a cool shirt like mine," America offered, as he led his friend toward a trolley stop. England raised a thick brow, conveying his distaste with that idea to his former colony. America only chuckled, slinging an arm casually about England's shoulders. "I'm only joking. Lighten up, Arthur!"

"You seem more cheerful than usual, if that's even possible. What's made you so perky?" England asked, shrugging off America's arm. America's bright smile faltered for just a moment, but then he quickly fixed it back in place.

"Actually, I've been feeling a bit down with the wars and all, ya know? But I spent some time thinking about it this morning and I got my head straight. From now on, I'm heroically pursuing my happiness!"

England blushed slightly, wondering if America meant spending the afternoon with him qualified as pursuing happiness, or if he was referring to something entirely different. Knowing his luck, England assumed it was the latter. He'd long ago admitted he had a _thing_ for his former charge, but he had no plans to act upon it and never expected America would, either. But it felt nice, to the normally lonely nation, to be invited for an afternoon of just 'hanging out.' England had been feeling a little down himself lately. A fun afternoon with America might perk him up a bit, too.

"So...what's so great about riding this trolley of yours?" England asked. America just shrugged as they approached the small ticket booth. The taller nation pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and flashed a government badge, which landed him two free tickets.

"It just goes around town to the touristy stuff and some of the restaurants. I like riding it on a pretty day," America finally explained. Tickets in hand, the two approached the rather busy stop and waited.

"How have things been at home?" America asked casually.

"Everyone's excited about the world cup," England said, a little surprised America hadn't mentioned it himself since their two nations were squaring off against each other in just a few weeks, the first time they had done so since the 1950s.

"World cup?" America asked blankly. The trolley pulled up and England's indignant squawking about the importance of the FIFA World Cup was largely ignored by America as he tugged the shorter nation to the back of the trolley, where they were the only two standing for the moment.

"Oh, yeah, that soccer thing, huh? It's on my calendar. Soccer's kinda boring, but it'll be awesome if we pull off a heroic win!"

"_Football_," England replied a bit snippy. "Everyone calls it football with the exception of you, and soccer is _not_ boring."

"You like watching tennis, too. Clearly you aren't the best judge."

"Well, nobody even wants to compete with you in your bastardized rugby games," England replied huffily. The trolley took off and he swayed a bit, blushing as he found himself leaning against America's chest. Absorbed in the conversation, the other nation took no notice and shifted so that he was holding the strap above England's head. England had nothing left to grab onto except the bar behind America, and did so with no small amount of reluctance. Oblivious to all the bodily contact between them, America continued to chatter on.

"If by 'bastardized rugby' you mean the freaking awesomeness of the NFL, then yeah, we don't let other nations compete in that because, quite frankly, you guys would just get hurt and your spirits would be forever crushed. And it's so awesome that only Americans can handle the...sheer awesomeness."

A cute little trolley bell rang out and they sped up, zooming through the streets of D.C., the destinations they passed announced by a chipper driver over an intercom.

"Nonsense. Ruby is a much more challenging sport, requiring far more athleticism and...and...your players wear padding. Ours don't. So there," England retorted.

"Whatever! In _my_ football, you can tackle whoever you want, not just the ball carrier, and those guys _have_ to wear padding because it's a collision sport. They tackle with their _skulls_."

"So you're trying to convince me that _your_ sport is more needlessly violent?" England questioned dryly. He should have known, however, that America wouldn't take it as an insult.

"Hell yeah it is! That's why it's awesome. But soccer's cool, too. We play our first game against each other, don't we?" America confirmed. They swayed to a stop, and once again England was pressed against America, who even went so far as to put a hand on his hip to steady him, as if it meant absolutely nothing. England tried to think of sports, and not the subtle pressure of Alfred's hand on his hip.

More people boarded the trolley, including an enthusiastic pair of tourists, who muscled to the back of the small trolley and forced America and England into even closer proximity. Still oblivious, America just seemed happy that they were so interested in snapping pictures of his streets and buildings. England, meanwhile, was trapped between the side railing and America's tall frame, and growing more hot under the collar with each passing moment. He looked out over the city, as his only other option was to stare rather closely at America's new T-shirt.

Alfred switched the hand that gripped the overhead strap of leather, and pressed even more firmly against England's back, leaning over him to point out a building they were passing. England closed his bottle green eyes and tried not to lean into America any more than necessary, and missed catching a glimpse of the Smithsonian in the process.

"Hey, it's hot out today. Let's get some ice scream at the next stop," America said, leaning back some. England breathed a sigh of relief and opened his eyes. He half-turned, blushing upon realizing how much like a couple they appeared. The trolley stopped once more and this time England's body anticipated the moment he would lean into Alfred's...but Alfred was practically barreling down the aisle instead, having spotted the ice cream vendor he seemed so excited about. England nearly fell, but he caught the abandoned leather strap at the last moment and then hastily followed his companion, lest he be left behind. He was thankful he had his jacket to hold in front of him, as spending twenty minutes on the trolley pressed against Alfred had gotten to him more than he cared to admit.

"What do you want, Arthur?" America asked, remembering to use his human name in front of the ice cream shop employee. He usually didn't, and then people made comments like "Oh, _that's _an interesting name—and you're even British, too!"

"Nothing. You know I don't care for sweets," England replied with a small sigh.

"That's _so_ not true. You love all your stale bread puddings, especially summer pudding with blackberries. I've seen you sneak into the fridge for it before it's even chilled all the way, staining your whole mouth black with the juice. And they call _me_ the glutton," America protested. England felt a small smile appear on his lips at the knowledge America, clueless America, _did _pay attention to him sometimes...enough to know his favorite dessert, at least.

"Summer pudding is much different in sugar content than your beloved ice cream. Order your strawberry, chocolate-dipped waffle cone, with extra sprinkles, so we can get on with the afternoon already," England replied, mostly just to prove he knew America's preferences, too.

"You heard the guy. One strawberry waffle cone, please. Lots and lots of sprinkles—the rainbow kind!" Alfred requested, grinning happily. The employee was smiling at them, a light blush on her cheeks.

"Where did you two meet?" the girl asked a bit shyly, obviously picking up on the vibe that they were either very close friends or partners. England stepped forward, answering the question quickly before America could say something strange sounding.

"We served together in Iraq. Now that we've finished our deployment, I've come to visit him."

"Aww, that's really romantic!" she cooed. Alfred, eyes glued to his prize, only blinked a bit confusedly at England.

"Huh? What's romantic?" he asked. The girl passed him the cone.

"Just eat your ice cream, Alfred." Without thinking anything of it, England passed his Visa to the girl slyly, waiting for Alfred to notice that England was paying and give his usual loud protest. For the moment, though, Alfred was completely absorbed in his first lick, which he made look absolutely sinful. England blushed, ignored the girl's giggle, and dragged America outside without claiming his receipt.

"But I gotta pay for it!" America protested.

"It's like you have tunnel vision when you're near junk food. I already paid her," Arthur explained. America's bright blue eyes widened in surprise.

"You shouldn't have had to pay, England. I'm the hero, you know."

"What does that have to do with who paid for the ice cream?" England asked confusedly.

"Well, you're my side-kick, so I'm supposed to take care of _you—_not the other way around."

"I'm your...your...ugh. America, you're a bloody idiot," England said. America shot him a cocky grin and took another long, purposefully slow lick of his ice cream.

"You like me anyway," he replied arrogantly. A sprinkle clung to the corner of his lip, a pink one, ruining his attempt to be smooth. Biting the corner of his own lip in amusement, England leaned forward and cradled Alfred's strong jaw in his hand, brushing the sprinkle away with a gentle arc of his thumb.

"You had a sprinkle on your lip. Must you always be such a messy eater?" America had the grace to look a little sheepish, and he shrugged his broad shoulders.

"You _did_ teach me better. I'll at least give you that."

Quite suddenly, it was one of _those_ moments. England still stood closely to America, his hand trailing away slowly from the taller nation's face, and America seemed to have enjoyed feeling England's touch...but then America practically stuffed his melting cone into his gaping maw and crunched on the cone and sprinkles, gulping down the liquefying cream. England snatched his hand back, afraid of losing it in the sudden, vicious attack against the cone. With his mouth full, America explained his hasty move.

"Shorry! Iff waf driffing!"

England let his hand fall completely in utter disgust with the mood killer and turned away, setting off down the street with no particular destination in mind, hugging his jacket coat like a security blanket against his chest, and wrinkling it unnecessarily. America trailed after him instantly, like an over-excited puppy, still slurping loudly on his melting cone.

_'If I kissed him now, his mouth would be cold, and it would taste like sugar and strawberries,'_ England thought glumly. His mood darkened further upon realizing it wasn't likely he'd be getting any second-hand ice cream that afternoon. Why did he have to fall for someone so utterly clueless?

"Hey! Let's go this way!" America grabbed his hand, tugging him down a side-street. England stumbled a bit as he adjusted to America's long strides, blushing at the stares they were getting from other pedestrians.

Despite his embarrassment, he couldn't bring himself to tell Alfred to let go of his hand.

"Where are you dragging me?" Arthur asked. America finished off his ice cream cone and released Arthur's hand when he went to throw away the paper sleeve.

"If we hurry, we might just make it to the last of the show," America said brightly. He reached for England's hand again when England was slow to respond. "But we gotta hurry, so come _on_!"

This time, England kept up a little better, his heart racing at America's quick pace. They ran at least three blocks and then turned a corner. In front of them stood a towering tan colored building, with large, rectangular columns in front. A sign on the lawn nearby proclaimed it to be the Lisner Auditorium.

"It's in there," America said, glancing both ways before jogging across the street. England followed after him, only catching up once the other nation was opening the door of the auditorium for him. Still panting lightly (vowing to start jogging again just as soon as he got back home), England entered the refreshingly cool building. It was dark once they entered the stage area, and it seemed barely a third of the seats were full near the front. Crisply dressed American airmen, armed with jazz tubas and trombones, filled the stage.

"That's the Air Force Jazz Band, isn't it?" England whispered. Not wanting to interrupt the show, they remained in the back aisle, hidden in the darkness. The singer was just crooning the last few bars of _America, the Beautiful_.

"Yeah, I saw an ad outside the ice cream shop that said they were playing a tribute to Glen Miller this afternoon. It's a free concert they put on sometimes, and they're pretty good. Remember? They came and played for the troops during the war, back when Glen Miller was really catching on," America said.

Of course England remembered. It was a huge morale booster for the troops, and since the audience was low on female company, nobody thought anything of it when Alfred pulled Arthur into a lively swing dance to the victorious, fast-stepping melody of _In the Mood_. After all, they had just reclaimed Paris and everyone felt relief like they hadn't even thought possible. Looking back on it, Arthur thought that it might have been the moment when his view of Alfred began to change. England stepped forward a bit and draped his jacket over the last row of chairs, smiling fondly at the memories.

As if on cue, the band rustled their music a bit and the singer said, "I think you all know this next one. We sure know it, or at least I hope we do! The legendary _In the Mood_..." There was a smattering of excited applause, and England blinked at the hand that was suddenly extended in front of him. Clearly America's mind had taken him back to the same memory. Glancing to the side, England saw Alfred's happy smile, unchanged even after such a long passage of time.

"Let's see if you've gotten any better since the 40s," America whispered playfully.

"Ha! _You_ were the one that stepped all over my feet," England retorted, even as America swept him up into a spinning quick step. It had been years since England danced, and apparently it had been just as long for America. The younger nation missed a step, his right foot tangling up a bit painfully with England's. America laughed in a husky whisper at England's quick accusation, "What did I _just_ say, you clumsy wanker!"

"Shh, England, they'll hear us!" America whispered back, still chuckling at his mistake.

"Right, left, right...there you go...right, left...your _other_ left," England coached, much to America's amusement. Finally they got back into the rhythm and their pulses raced. America decided to get fancy and sent England into a twirl, which only tangled them up in each other's arms. Grinning, England tried to regain his balance, as he was feeling quite dizzy. "Now you're just trying to get me to fall all over myself," England whispered. America tried the spin again, and they pulled it off successfully that time, despite the near-darkness.

"This was a lot easier when I could see," America said, stepping on England's foot once again.

"But it's probably a lot easier to _watch_ with the lights off. I'm certain we look absolutely ridiculous," England joked, finally tripping up himself and landing flush against America's chest. Unexpectedly, the band transitioned smoothly into another Glenn Miller hit—_Moonlight Serenade. _It was a romantic slow dance, and England started to pull away but America kept a firm hold on him.

"Where are you going? Don't you miss this?" America asked, not bothering to conceal the nostalgic longing in his voice. England smiled a little sadly, knowing exactly how America felt. The 1940s had been a poignant time, when every goodbye seemed just a little sadder, and each hello a little sweeter. Lost in memories, England didn't even realize America had pulled him close enough to tuck his head under his chin. To the soft rising and falling of the notes, they swayed back and forth in the cool darkness of the auditorium. England closed his eyes, remembering how stiff and strong America's uniform had felt under his hands back then, and how his own boots had clicked over the worn tile as they danced. Now their steps were entirely silent, muffled by the carpet, and America's T-shirt was soft against England's cheek.

"I'm glad you came," America said, a hint of a smile in his voice. England smiled as well, recognizing that America was echoing England's own words, from that day so long ago in the 40s. Back then, it was the closest he could come to thanking his former colony for finally, _finally_, joining the Allied cause. England stretched his memory back, to recall what America had said in response.

"You wouldn't have had any fun without me," England replied. Silently he added, _'What sentimental fools we both are.'_

The medley ended gently, and America released him. They were both blushing a bit in the darkness, but thankfully neither could see each other all that clearly.

"Come on, let's grab seats now that they're in between songs," America whispered. England nodded and collected his jacket, blushing even more when America's hand found his in the darkness and guided him down the row.

_'He has to know what he's doing. Surely he has to know,'_ England thought, a little desperately. At the same time, however, he knew Alfred could easily mean absolutely nothing by it. They'd been playing the same game for _decades_. The song playing now was melancholy, and it suited Arthur's mood. Once they had found seats, Alfred casually released his hand, and Arthur's sigh was audible.

"What's wrong?" America whispered. England shook his head.

"Nothing...nothing at all. I'm having a nice time, Alfred, truly. Thank you for showing me your capital," England said, almost too softly for Alfred to hear. The taller nation sensed his friend's sadness but did not know the cause of it, and knew England couldn't be pushed to talk about something he didn't want to talk about until he was truly ready. America had no choice but to let it go. He patted England's knee, which was just barely touching his own.

"I know it's a little rough these days for both of us, and that's mostly my fault, but you don't know how much it means to me that you've stuck by me, England," America whispered, his voice painfully sincere. His large hand lingered on England's knee for just a second too long and then it was gone, tucked back in America's lap. England closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him.

"I'll always support you, Alfred. After all, every true hero has a good side-kick," Arthur joked weakly. He felt, rather than saw, America's kind smile.

"You're the best side-kick a hero could ever want."

_'And that will have to be enough, won't it?'_ England thought miserably, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. The trust and friendship between himself and America would simply have to be enough, and if he was being brutally honest about it, probably far more than he deserved.

**AN: **Oh geez, lot's of historical asides for this one...

This story is set in late may/early June of this past summer, so the soccer world cup is about to start. I had to look most of those details up on wikipedia because, like 99% of America, I don't give a crap about soccer. (lolz, I jest. I know it's really gaining in popularity as of late...)

The NFL is the only major sport that doesn't have any type of international level of competition. It's kind of a unique phenomena in America, and one of the Super Bowls was like, the most watched television broadcast in the history of ever-ness here. That's why Alfred is more passionate about the NFL than he is about the FIFA world cup, but like any sports fanatic at heart, he'll get really pumped about the world cup when the time comes, lolz. And of course, in England their version is called rugby, though it has different rules and really isn't the same game.

Summer pudding. At first I wondered why the other characters made fun of England's bad taste in food (not really knowing much about traditional British cuisine) but then I started looking up some recipes and now I think I understand. Lots of British puddings consist of lining a dish with stale bread, then heaping a bunch of fruit on top, then putting more stale bread, and then leaving it in the fridge overnight so all the fruit juice leaks out and soaks the bread. To any British readers, I'm not dissing. I'm actually a little curious to try it now. And this has been another instance of 'WHEN HETALIA STEREOTYPES BECOME SADLY TRUE.' Because I'll probably like it.

Glenn Miller/the 1940s. Okay, this scene is a shameless reference to another Hetalia fic that is FAR superior to mine, written by RobinRocks (who's British, and therefore her England is fantastic), in which Alfred first works up the nerve to ask Arthur out after dancing with him to Glen Miller during a morale boosting concert. So, I liked the idea so much that I used the concept, though I put my own twist on it since they're falling for each other present day and not post-WWII.

The auditorium they dance in is a real place in D.C., though I didn't visit when I was there. The AF jazz band frequently does free concerts there, though. On a totally unrelated side-note, I did get to ride the trolley in D.C. (sadly lacking in cuddly!America) and ate ice cream along the route, as America does. :) However, I did not get to romantically swing dance with someone in the back of a dark auditorium and then transition poignantly into a slow dance. It's on my to-do list, though.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four: In Which Our Hero Takes a Bubble Bath**_

The taxi turned onto Rhode Island Avenue and stopped in front of a stately building, the Beacon Hotel. It was the hotel England favored when he ventured stateside, as it was tasteful and yet simple, lacking any gaudy opulence that American hotels seemed to favor. Still, he was staying in the Corporate Quarters King Room, so he imagined his room was a bit nicer than the the rooms on the lower levels. As it was, he had a magnificent view of the capital from his balcony on the highest floor. It was nearing six, and the sun was just beginning to wind down in the sky. America had already hopped out of the taxi, sheepishly admitting he didn't have any cash on hand. England dismissed his concerns and paid the driver, only just realizing he'd left his briefcase back at the conference building. He didn't worry about it overly much. There was nothing really crucial inside, and it was likely an aide had returned it to the hotel already, anyway.

"At least let me make it up to you by getting you dinner," America scanned the street and pointed down the road a bit. "How's Chinese sound?"

Realizing he was going to get very little work done, England just nodded and followed America down the sidewalk. They entered the tidy little restaurant and America handed him a menu. "Let's just order to go and eat in the hotel."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," England replied. He was eager to get his tie off and change into something a little cooler than a suit. A very friendly wait-staff took their order, and in less than a half-hour they were walking back to the hotel with a sackful of white take-out boxes, chopsticks and fortune cookies.

"Did you have fun today?" America asked, nudging his shoulder lightly against England's.

"If I tell you I did, it will swell your already super-sized ego even further."

"But you did?" America pressed, trying to coax a smile out of his companion. England huffed in amusement and returned America's beaming grin with a small quirk of his lips.

"It was an acceptable way to spend an afternoon," he conceded. They walked in silence for a few minutes and then America spoke.

"I guess I won't see you again till the World Cup."

"Likely you won't," England replied.

"Bummer. Well, hey, you can always call me if you miss me too much. Plus, my iPhone 4 has video chat!" America said. England's eyes shifted questioningly towards America. Of course they had each other's personal numbers and e-mails, but beyond an occasional business call, they rarely used them. His work phone was always buzzing away in his pocket, brimming with messages, but his personal phone was practically dusty. Occasionally the Queen would call to invite him for tea, or France would call to gloat about a sexual conquest, and that was about the extent of his social life.

"Even if I did call, what on earth would we talk about?" England settled on replying, trying to sound dismissive.

"You _do_ watch my movies, right? I mean, I don't watch a lot of yours, because they're _so_ slow...and weird...but we could talk about _my_ movies," America replied. England rolled his eyes.

"_Great Expectations_ in 1946, directed by David Lean—one of the best films ever made, and very British."

"Uh, ha ha, _no_. It gets points for being a film adaption of a book, which is good because that means some poor, suffering American kids can watch the movie instead of wade through reading _Great Expectations_..."

"One doesn't 'wade through' _Great Expectations_. Have you even _read_ it?"

America opened the door of the hotel lobby and smiled mischievously.

"Seeing the movie doesn't count?"

"Insufferable. You're bloody insufferable."

"Call me anyway," America shot back. Blushing a little, England shook his head in an exasperated sort of way and fetched his hotel key out of his pocket. He led America to the elevators, and pressed the top floor.

"So what are you working on tonight?" America asked. England sighed at the reminder.

"Budgeting mostly. I have a meeting with the Prime Minister as soon as I return home tomorrow. Hopefully I can finish up my report on the plane."

"What plane are you taking?"

"British Airways, of course. I'm not sure which model..."

"Likely the Boeing 747. Maybe you'll get lucky and be on the 777—it's got the most powerful turbo-fan engines in the world, ya know."

"I'm surprised you know so much about a fleet of British planes," England settled on replying (though he wasn't really surprised. If it was mechanical, chances were high that America knew how it worked.) America just chuckled.

"They're _American _planes. BA flies Boeing aircraft. Not to say you Brits haven't made some beauties in your time. I miss the Airco DH.4—what I wouldn't give to fly one with a 380hp Rolls-Royce Eagle engine...but the Liberty handled pretty well, too."

"When did we use that plane?" England asked. _'It's funny,' _England mused, _'America likely doesn't know the difference between Iraq and Iran, but he's got a near photographic memory of every aircraft and automobile he can get his hands on.'_ Though he'd never tell him, England thought it was rather sexy to hear America wax poetical about a particularly well-designed engine.

"How could you forget those little planes? Come on, England, I made my first independent raid over enemy lines in WWI in that little guy! He was a fighter. Had to put my own engines in them, of course. By that point in the war, you were running a little low on Rolls-Royce Eagles," America said with a laugh—the tone of understatement very obvious. England just smiled indulgently.

"I'm glad you liked her...even though I hardly remember what you're talking about." The elevator dinged and the doors opened to a pristinely clean hallway. America trailed after England until they reached his suite, and England opened the door to let them inside.

As if the hotel room belonged to him, America kicked off his flip-flops, dropped the food messily on the desk (on top of some paperwork England had already started) and fell in a messy sprawl onto the white, king-size bed. England's hands rose to his hips upon catching a glimpse of America's feet.

"Just _what_ exactly were you doing this morning that made you late? Your feet are filthy. Kindly take them off the very _white_ bed linens."

America hefted himself off the bed and glanced at the soles of his feet.

"You really wanna know?" America asked. England hesitated, but nodded his head. America smiled softly. "I was feeling kinda down. I like to go to the country when I've got a lot on my mind. About the time the meeting started, I was laying in a field in Nebraska just thinking about...well...the future, I guess. I didn't plan to show up at all, but I got hungry so I went to a small town nearby and ran into some old WWII vets. I guess you could say they gave me a pep talk, so I ran back to the capital to catch what I could of the meeting."

England conjured a mental map and tried not to gape. Catching his expression on his way to the bathroom to clean up some, America defended his actions.

"Well, if I'd known I was gonna come back in such a hurry, I woulda flown or driven. I couldn't sleep last night, so I started walking pretty early this morning. Ended up in Nebraska before I really knew where I was. It was hot, so I ditched the shirt, and the dirt was cool, so I lost the shoes somewhere in Iowa, I think..." the sound of the water running from the bathtub drowned out the last bit of what America was saying. England shadowed him to the bathroom door.

"I didn't catch that last bit."

"Oh, I just said I'm gonna feel it in the morning. Truth be told, I'm feeling it now. I haven't run like that in a _long_ time. It felt good, though. They do claim that exercise improves your mood. Hey, this tub is _nice_. Mind if I take a soak?"

Fighting the blush, England just nodded. "Make yourself at home," he said softly. Before England could turn away, America stripped off his shirt and stepped out of his shorts and boxers. Hastily, England pulled the door closed.

"Leave it open, England. I can't talk to you with the door closed." England, however, was trying to shake the image of America's long, muscular legs (tan of course, which was totally unfair) and his firm, naked backside. With thoughts of the Queen firmly in his mind to calm him down, he gently pushed the door open a bit but didn't peek again...at least he didn't _intend _to look.

"I forgot to grab a towel. Can you hand me one?" America asked. Luckily, the bathroom was already steaming up from all the hot water pouring out of the faucet, which gave England an excuse for his red cheeks. He fetched a towel and (keeping his head turned away) passed it blindly to America...who didn't take it.

"Uh, England, you're gonna have to come about three feet closer," America laughed. With a cocky grin, he added, "I promise I won't pull you in here, too. You might get a bit..._wet_...though."

"Oh, that's bloody _it_. Here!" Still without looking, England chunked the towel with all his might, managing to hit America square in the face. There was a splashing noise, followed by America chuckling.

"What was _that_ for?"

"For being a _twat_!" England fired back, slamming the bathroom door for good measure. Inside the bathroom, America continued to chuckle as he folded the towel back up and set it on the nearby rack. The blissfully hot water was up to his belly button now, and America's aching legs were turning into jelly. He placed his foggy glasses on top of the towel and groped a bit blindly for the complimentary bottle of bath bubbles. With child-like glee, he squeezed the entire contents of the bottle into the water and watched in anticipation as the foam started building instantly, like that time he'd dumped a bottle of industrial liquid soap into the fountain at Chatsworth House. England had clearly wanted to beat him bloody for that one, but he couldn't catch up to him, and he thought it very undignified to go tearing after him over the pristine lawns while the tourists gaped.

America let his head loll back against the porcelain and closed his eyes, his ears full of the peaceful rushing water. Hot baths were amazing. He suddenly had a flashback to when he was a wild little boy and England would wrestle him into a tub first thing when he visited, because America certainly hadn't bothered with baths in his absence. To make it more bearable, England would tell him stories about King Arthur as he scrubbed him down and washed behind his ears.

"Hey England!" America called out, once he'd turned off the water with his toes. There was along pause with no answer. "England!" America called again. The door opened and England stood in a pair of lounge pants and a faded Beatles T-shirt, with a box of takeout in his hand.

"For God's sake, what _now, _you insufferable boy?"

"I wanna hear some King Arthur stories," America requested with a cheeky grin. England looked as though he wanted to bang his head repeatedly against the door frame, but seeming to give up on life, he entered into the bathroom and sat primly on the closed toilet lid. He poked at his noodles a bit with his chopsticks.

"You look comfy. How's the food?" America asked. England blushed, but nodded.

"It's decent. My suit was a little stuffy."

"I'm glad to see you've finally modernized your pajamas...though it used to be pretty funny when you'd sleep in those dresses."

"Oh, shut up."

"Give me a bite," America begged.

"Absolutely not. Get your own," England replied. America grinned, acting as though he were going to hoist himself up out of the suds and drip all over the floor. "Sit down! For the love of...here!" England extended a rather large clump of noodles on the ends of his chopsticks and America happily ate them.

"Nice and greasy. Yummy!" America relaxed back into the tub again, thankfully hidden up to his chin in bubbles.

"You're incorrigible...and I'm not telling you any stories. You aren't a child anymore." America smiled a bit dreamily before ducking under the water and emerging again dripping.

"We'll have to talk about something else then. You know...I guess _Great Expectations_ wasn't too bad of a book. If he'd kept the original ending, I would have really hated it, though."

England's impressive brows shot up in surprise, and he could tell by the knowing little smirk on America's face that he was thoroughly enjoying catching England unawares.

"You little liar. You said you hadn't read it."

"I never said I hadn't read it. In fact, I'd go as far as saying I have a bit of a crush on Estella. Pip was pretty lame for letting her marry someone else."

"Estella was cold and heartless. She deserved what she got with Drummle...and Dickens should have kept the original ending. It was more in tone with the rest of the novel."

"But it wasn't a happy ending," America protested. "If Pip doesn't get Estella in the end, then what's the point?"

Feeling even more glum than he had upon America announcing he had a crush on an imaginary female, England's response was perhaps a bit sharper than he intended.

"I've lived long enough to learn that happy endings are only for fairy tales. Chance encounters with ghosts of the past, forced to wonder what could have been...that's all this world is, and that's more appropriate for a Dickens novel."

America flashed him another mysterious smile, as if he knew something England didn't.

"You're so predictable, Estella," America replied. England was jolted out of his melancholy by America's strange words.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, 'You're so predictable about Estella. You _would_ think she didn't deserve a second chance."

Frustrated with the conversation, because he had the distinct suspicion _he_ was talking about the book while America was talking about something else entirely, England ate his next bite of noodles in a sulk. When he spoke again, his tone was snappy.

"Just stick to your picture books. You _clearly_ don't know what you're talking about."

America just laughed and gave himself a beard out of bubbles.

"Look, I'm Lincoln!"

"While I'd love to sit in here and admire your amazing feats of pogonotrophy, I'm going to actually get some work done. Hurry up, though, or you'll miss the sunset." England stuck around just long enough to admire America's cute look of confusion, suds dripping off his face, before leaving the bathroom with a haughty spin.

America's puzzlement over the word 'pogonotrophy' morphed into one of fond amusement. Once more, America sunk beneath the water, keeping his eyes tightly shut. _'Whatever you say, Estella. Whatever you say...'_

Much to England's dismay/secret pleasure, America ended up crashing in his hotel room. England had spent most of the evening working at the writing desk, while America first watched the sunset and then devoured what was left of the take-out. He managed to leave England alone while he was watching some insipid reality TV show, but then discovered the pay-per-view menu and thought nothing of adding one to England's hotel bill.

"Do the budget stuff _later_, England! This is gonna be epic! It's Ironman!"

"As delightful as one of your silly hero movies sounds...I think I'll continue on the budget. Besides, you've made such a mess of the bed, there's no room for me." That wasn't a wise statement on England's part, because America promptly swept off all the empty, greasy bottles. England mentally sighed. _'The bathroom is half-flooded and there are grease stains on the carpet now. I'll be lucky if they let me book the room again.'_

"Puh-leeeeaaasee? Pretty please? With a cherry on top?" America's voice grated. England took a deep, bracing breath and put his pen down.

"You don't even make any sense."

"Just come watch with me already! I'm lonely," America said, in a put-upon baby voice. It tugged at England's heartstrings, those earnest blue eyes and that sad little pout, but he refused to let America know he had that kind of power over him.

"Fine...but only because I can't concentrate properly with the telly blaring in my ears."

"Yay!" America said, scooting over for him, but just barely. "We need popcorn," America added.

"We _just_ ate dinner."

"So?" America asked. "You watch movies with popcorn. I'm gonna call room service." England knew a losing battle when he saw one, and merely watched America flip through other possible titles as he requested popcorn and smoothies to the operator on the phone.

When he hung up, America said, "Never fear. Room service to the rescue. I got you blueberry."

"I heard."

"Hey, if you don't want it..." America trailed off, knowing full-well England had a fondness for blueberries.

"It's fine. I'll drink it so that you don't have an excuse to drink two, you glutton."

"Alright! Let's start the movie!" America pressed the play button and the movie began to roll.

England rolled his eyes. "Really, America? Beefy American commandos rolling through Afghanistan in tanks while the soundtrack blares AC/DC...because that's exactly what war is like over there."

"Oh, just watch. You'll like it—I _know_ you will."

"...and there's an explosion. Did we even make it five minutes in?" England quipped. America laughed and shifted, making the neckline of his hotel robe widen temptingly. England forced his eyes away quickly and stared fixedly at the movie. Because of this, he missed America's knowing smirk.

"I don't much care for this hero of yours. Is this supposed to be the new face of American machismo?" England asked.

"What? You don't like Tony Stark? He's got money, looks, brains..."

"I can think of a hero I like better," England replied flippantly. America's hand brushed against his, and England felt his cheeks flush.

"And who might that be?"

"You know I'm rather fond of Superman."

"But he's just a boring farm boy. Everyone thinks he's ridiculous," America said in a voice that suggested what he said was not his personal belief, but rather the common opinion. It coaxed a smile out of England.

"Fishing for praise now, are we?"

"Maybe I'm insecure," America was leaning close to him, cocky grin firmly in place, suggesting anything but insecurity.

"Oh, shove off, you bloody idiot. Go get your popcorn." Still, England smiled and America returned the grin over his shoulder as he went to the door.

He came back with a mouthful of buttery goodness, and bounced onto the bed beside England rather enthusiastically, losing a few kernels in the process. Done playing word games with America (at least for the moment) England happily sipped on his blueberry smoothie, their focus eventually settling on the adventures of Ironman.

**A/N: **Thanks for all the feedback guys! Sorry about making you login—I didn't realize my settings were on that. Anyone who wants to review now should be able, and I'm always happy to read them. :)

And onto the ridiculously long notes for this chapter...

When America entered WWI, we didn't have any planes suitable for warfare, so we used the designs of a British plane. The Americans had to add a Ford motor to it, though, which wasn't as powerful as the Rolls-Royce Eagle motor that the British originally put in the planes. As you've probably noticed by now, I'm a car/plane geek, which is part of the reason I love writing America. Oh, and England doesn't care much about the planes since he's always been more interested in his Navy. ;)

The Chatsworth House in England has one of the world's most famous fountains. America, of course, dumped soap in it.

_Great Expectations_. It's essentially a USUK fanfic in famous novel form. Pip (America) is this no-name kid that spends a lot of his time growing up playing with a beautiful yet cold-hearted girl named Estella (UK) who lives with a bitter old woman (the King) that has raised Estella to be cruel and unfeeling. Pip, however, naively thinks the rich old woman is going to make him a gentleman, so he can marry Estella and be on her level. Of course, the King/Old Woman has no intention of letting Pip/America become an equal to Estella/UK (uh-oh, revolution time), and Pip ends up having to go into blacksmithing (rise of Industrialism in America, anyone?). But, another benefactor smiles on Pip and he inherits great wealth. He decides he'll become a gentleman without the King's help, but generally squanders money and makes a lot of mistakes (the roaring 1920s). Meanwhile, Estella is married off to someone else she doesn't really love, who treats her cruelly, but Pip finds out she'd only been playing with his heart when they were children, because that's what the old woman told her to do. But ultimately, Pip/America finds out he's not going to get all the money he expected when he turns 21, and instead he realizes he'll have to make his own fortune. He does (the 1940s), and becomes more wise, but he still loves Estella/UK. He goes back to the place they used to play as children, and sure enough, Estella/UK is there waiting for him. She's fallen off her pedestal and learned from her mistakes, and her abusive husband has died, allowing her and Pip to finally have their happy ending.

However, that happy ending almost didn't happen. Originally, Dickens wanted the two to meet, share painful looks, and then go their separate ways. England claims to favor this ending (as do most scholars) since he thinks that's what has happened with him and America. America, of course, likes the ending where Pip finally becomes an equal to Estella, and Estella has learned not to be so cruel, and they live happily ever after. :)

Tony Stark (Ironman) vs. Superman. I did lots of double meaning in this chapter, geez. Ironman is a "new" American hero in his most recent movies—badass, fast-talking, powerful, devil-may-care sort of anti-hero, a blow-up the bad guys and ask questions later sort of guy. Obviously, America is not really that sort of hero...yet. England makes the observation that he likes Superman better (sweeter/more respectful/a little clueless) over the chauvinistic Ironman. England is also implying that the character of Superman was based on America (One of the first issues of Superman depicted him lifting a 1930s Rolls-Royce look-alike, which is the car America drags to England asking if he can borrow it. Don't know if that's the reference the Hetalia creator was going for, but that's how I interpreted it.) So yeah, basically America has worked really hard to make England see him as an equal, but he's secretly glad England prefers the farm-boy Superman over the big-city Tony Stark, even though he's kind of both these days.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five: Our Hero Hits the Skies**_

"Thanks for the lift to the airport," England said. As he slid out of the front seat, he noticed a small crowd was gathering, seemingly staring at him. "Err...America...is there a stain on my suit or something?" England asked. America rounded his precious car (lovingly sliding his hand over the trunk as he did so) and flashed England a cocky grin.

"Nope. They're checking out the car...and possibly me," America winked. England noticed then that the onlookers did tend to be primarily males, harried along by their wives but stopping to shoot longing, love-sick glances at the vehicle England had just exited.

"Let me guess—over-compensating with your car, again? I don't see what's so special about a vehicle that you required us to stop _twice_ for petrol on the relatively short ride to the airport," England jibed. Secretly, though, he was rather fond of the American's new acquisition. It seemed to suit his big, flashy personality. It's engine was noisy in that thrilling way, which made one feel as if they were about to fly off the pavement.

"England, don't talk about her like that. She's _right_ here. Ladies are sensitive about how much they eat," America patted the car's rear quarter panel, as if she were a faithful dog. Now ignoring England completely he said, "Don't you worry, baby. Daddy will get you all the gas money can buy. Who's daddy's baby girl? That's right, _you_ are."

"Oh for heaven's sake, would you _stop_? You look absolutely ridiculous," England said, fishing for his baggage in the backseat. Finally, a man broke away from his frustrated wife and actually shook America's hand.

"She's beautiful," he praised. "Congratulations, man."

"Thanks!" America replied, still lovingly patting his car. England finally freed his luggage and gave Alfred a pointed glare. This was the part where he was supposed to be saying goodbye to him. Instead, England was going to have to fight for his attention with a bloody car.

"What's she running?" the admirer asked. Now another man had joined. America leaned against the vehicle with his chest puffed out, eyes practically sparkling to match his 100-watt grin.

"500 horses in an aluminum V8. She's a ZL1 Camaro—only 50 of them made, ya know."

"Alfred, I'm leaving."

"The COPO package? Are you _kidding_ me? Can I get a picture?"

"Sure! You wanna look under the hood?" Alfred replied.

"I _said_: I'm leaving, Alfred. Back to England. My plane could go down in the Atlantic and I might never see you again. Here's your chance to say goodbye."

"Be there in a sec, Arty," America waved at him dismissively, primping like a peacock in front of his gathering crowd. Now there were roughly six guys of varying ages practically dry humping the car. England scowled. Next time, he was taking a bloody cab. True to his word, he stomped off, his tidy black rolling suitcase bouncing along behind him as he tugged it violently along.

_'The nerve!'_ England fumed, knocking over small children and at least two elderly people on his rampage to the check-in.

"Arthur! Arthur, wait!" England kept going, ignoring the loud yelling, until he stood at the end of a line for baggage check. The overenthusiastic idiot nearly barreled into him, leaning on his shoulder and panting dramatically. "Geez! Aren't you going to say goodbye to me?"

"You and your vehicle were clearly having an intimate moment. I certainly didn't want to interrupt," England replied, his brows forking downwards ominously. Missing the sarcasm, America replied.

"Well, yeah, it's hard to just leave her in a parking spot when she _looks_ at you like she does. She's been treated really badly in the past, Arthur. I can't just leave her there thinking I might not come back."

"_I_ might not come back," England growled. America blinked at him in confusion.

"I see you, like, all the time. I only get an hour each day to polish her and check her tread depth and make sure all her gauges are adjusted..."

"Was there a point in you following me?" Arthur interrupted, moving forward a spot in line.

"Well, I wanted to say goodbye properly, of course. Aren't you going to miss me?" Alfred asked.

"Absolutely not."

"But...but I'm gonna miss you, Arthur!"

"You can watch movies with your ZXY Camaroon, or whatever the hell she is."

"Uh, she's a _Camaro_, one of the greatest cars ever created by man, and I _would_...butshe only likes watching that stupid Herbie movie remake with Lindsey Lohan, and there's really only so many times I can watch that movie, even for the love of my life."

"I'm officially ignoring you now."

Alfred, of course, had to make that impossible. Not noticing (or caring) about the uncomfortable look on the man's face in line behind them, the taller nation wrapped his arms around England's shoulders in a tight squeeze and then ruffled his hair.

"You _won't_ crash into the Atlantic—American plane, remember? You'll call me, right?"

"I...w-well I..."

"'Cause I'll be waiting until ya do. Don't work too hard, okay? Let me know when you're safe in London. It was really fun hanging out with you yesterday...maybe we can do it again at the World Cup? Ironman 2 is coming out soon, ya know."

"I...I'll let you know when I've landed. I had a very enjoyable time, as well."

Arthur thought for a moment that Alfred might kiss his cheek, because he suddenly leaned in suspiciously, but instead Arthur felt his hand being energetically shaken.

"See ya later, Arthur! Bye! What do you guys say in England? Oh yeah! Cheerio old chap!"

England grit his teeth and turned away pointedly from the energetic American still waving happily at him as he left the airport. _'Why did it have to be _him? _Why couldn't I have fallen for Greece? Japan, even! Someone with culture and dignity and...'_

"Sorry, excuse me, I just forgot something, sorry!" England turned to look back in the queue only to see America pushing and tripping over baggage to get back to his side. England raised a brow questioningly. It was almost his turn to check-in.

"I forgot to give you this. I got it at the gas station," America explained, pulling something a little squished out of his pants pocket. America pushed it into his hand and England looked down. It was a blueberry muffin, with a cartoony little smiling sun on the wrapper that proudly claimed 'I'll make you strong! One whole serving of fruit! No additives!'

"Since you slept in late, you didn't get a chance to grab any breakfast at the hotel. I didn't want you to get hungry! It's got a whole serving of blueberries. Perfect, huh? Alright, well now I'm really off."

Arthur smiled sentimentally at the sugary muffin in his hand. _'Oh yeah, that's why. You're quite wonderful sometimes, Alfred F. Jones.'_

"Next in line!" a woman shouted. Arthur glanced up, thinking, _'To hell with it, I'm just going to kiss him!'_ But Alfred was already gone, dodging and weaving back through the crowd.

America stood in a small office at Camp Edwards, located in Cape Cod, dressed crisply in a sleek blue suit. A small American flag pin adorned his lapel, identical to the one on the president's ensemble. He'd driven eight hours to the Massachusetts Military Reservation to meet with his boss after giving Arthur a lift to the airport the previous day. He could have made it there much faster by flying, or even walking (if he used his mystical powers as a nation) but Alfred loved nothing more than hitting his highways in a great car in pretty weather and just cruising.

The MMR was bustling with activity, which was typical, as it was home to the US Coast Guard, the Army National Guard, and the Otis Air National Guard Base. Camp Edwards was located in the northern sector of the reservation, which spanned nearly 15,000 acres.

"I've got an assignment for you at NASA," the President informed him crisply. "Consider it the closest thing I can give you to a vacation. I know you've been working hard, and I appreciate it. I was informed you even took personal time this past weekend to escort England around the capital. Our ties with England are weak after Iraq, but they're crucial. So thank you for taking some initiative on that front. Now...how would you feel about getting up in the air in a B-24 Liberator again?"

"Are you kidding me? The _Witchcraft_ or _Ole 927_?"

"Well, that's the best part. _Witchcraft_, as you probably know, is kept here in Massachusetts, and _Ole 927_ is down in Texas. There's going to be a very special air show at Ellington Field for veterans, featuring the simultaneous flight of both aircrafts. I've been told, however, that the plane is difficult to fly, and the usual pilot for the _Witchcraft_ had a bad fall and broke his leg and wrist. They thought they'd have to cancel the Liberator part of the show, but I told them I knew a pilot who could more than handle the job. So what do you say, America? Your assignment is to deliver the _Witchcraft _to Ellington Field, where you'll rendezvous with a Mr. Dave Miller. The two of you will fly in the air show together and then you'll report to NASA after that. Once your assignment is complete, you'll be off to represent us in the World Cup."

America gave a jaunty salute. "I'm on it, Mr. President!"

The President smiled and tossed an access badge to Alfred.

"You're going to need a co-pilot, of course. Think your brother would be interested?"

Alfred laughed and said, "Now it's a diplomacy assignment, too?"

"I said it was _like_ a vacation. You know I'm going to keep my most trusted man busy. Have fun, though, America. You've earned a break."

"Thanks! I'll give Matthew a call and see if he feels like getting some frequent flier miles."

Happy like a kid in a candy shop, America left the office practically skipping. He fished his phone out of his pocket and speed-dialed Matty.

"_Hello?"_ Matty answered.

"Hey Matty! What would you say if I told you we had to sink some German U-boats?"

"_WHAT? You're attacking G-Germany? Alfred, you can't be serious! What on earth would make you want to do a thing like that? Have you told England what you're planning? I really don't think he'll let you..." _

America's booming laughter finally silenced Matthew on the other end of the line.

"_That's _not_ a very funny joke, Alfred!" _Canada chastised. Still snickering, America finally offered a decent explanation that didn't include the outbreak of WWIII.

"I've been given an assignment to fly an old B-24 Liberator from here in Cape Cod down to Texas for an air show. Problem is, there's not too many pilots left these days that are up to the task of manning the Liberator. I seem to recall, though, that you're pretty handy when it comes to flying B-24s in June."

On the other end of the line, Matthew was blushing at the rare praise; he had been part of a rather historic flight crew in June of '44, in which he and his crew sunk not one but _two_ German U-boats in the span of 22 minutes. Matthew smiled at the idea that his twin wanted to spend some quality time with him, and had thought of him when he needed a co-pilot.

"_Of course! I'd l-love to! Where do I meet you, Alfie?" _

"Camp Edwards."

"_That's not far at all. I can be there in a few hours." _

"Great, Matty. I'll see ya in a few."

Still near bursting with excitement, America decided he'd jump the gun and give England a call first to share the exciting news.

England was jet lagged, and poorly prepared for the budgeting meeting with the fairly new Prime Minister. He was shuffling through his notes (scowling at the doodles in the margins that _someone_ had obviously saw fit to add) and trying to present his findings. As if the task weren't difficult enough on roughly three hours of sleep, some idiot's phone started ringing on the loudest volume.

_Somewhere after midnight_

_In my wildest fantasy_

_Somewhere just beyond my reach_

_There's someone reaching back for me..._

"Could you _please_ be so kind as to turn off your mobile!" Arthur bellowed. There was a general shuffling in bags and purses, but the ringing continued.

_Racing on the thunder_

_And rising with the heat_

_It's gonna take a Superman _

_To sweep me off my feet!_

England blinked at the odd Superman reference, and his eyes dropped in horror to his own briefcase kicked partially under the table. _'Oh gods. He's changed my ringtones. That. Bloody. Wanker!' _Arthur dove for the briefcase, but not before the most damning chorus belted out of the phone.

_I need a hero! I'm holding out for a hero_

_'Til the end of the night_

_He's gotta be strong_

_And he's gotta be fast_

_And he's gotta be fresh from the fight!_

_I need a hero!_

Arthur furiously jabbed a button hoping to silence the infernal device, but as he hardly ever used the thing he only succeeded in answering and putting it on speaker.

"_England? You there? It's me! America! Guess what?"_

England did not want to guess, and he certainly did not want to leave the American rambling on the mobile to embarrass him further. Finally, _finally_, he found the button to disconnect the call.

He crawled out from under the table with a sheepish look on his face, cheeks burning in mortification. The Prime Minister quirked an eyebrow.

"I...err...I can e-explain. It must have been America's idea of a prank. I offer my most sincere apologies and beg you to...err...I was on...we were discussing...yes! Here! The 30% cut to the Arts Council England has i-improved our bottom line c-considerably this quarter and I think..."

"England?" his boss asked, as he laced his fingers together under his chin.

"Yes?" England asked, obviously still very flustered.

"_I_ think it would be best if we rescheduled this meeting. While you've clearly made a _heroic_ attempt..."

"_Super_, old chap, really _super_..." another cabinet member interjected with a snicker.

Smiling, the Prime Minister continued, "Perhaps if you get some sleep _'til the end of the night_...your presentation will be a bit more clear."

"Y-yes, Prime Minister. I _do _apologize once more for..."

"No need, Arthur. Just get some rest...and do please change America's ring tone. It doesn't exactly reflect very well on us, now does it?"

Burning with embarrassment, England hastily packed up his notes and collected his baggage. Ignoring the snickers and chuckles to the best of his ability, England left the meeting room in the sort of temper that made him wish it was still the age of piracy.

"Hmm, that's weird. Guess the call got dropped. Ah well, he'll call me back. Heh! I bet he let it ring so long because he liked the totally awesome new ringtones I put on his phone!" Pleased with the favor he'd done for Arthur, Alfred exited the building all smiles and waved down a jeep that was heading over to the air strip.

**A/N: **Thanks for such wonderful feedback everyone! It's really motivating me to crank out the chapters! :) Oh, and I apologize for small mistakes. I don't have a beta and now that I'm back at work from Thanksgiving Break, I won't have much time to self-edit the chapters. Sorry in advance!

Not too many notes for this chapter, but since a couple people seem to like the extra info, here ya go...

The ZL1 Camaro is probably every muscle car enthusiasts' dream ride. It's one of the rarest and fastest, meant primarily for drag racing as it can hit sixty in about five seconds. It's a very beautiful, flashy looking car, which is why I thought America would somehow manage to get his hands on one and restore it.

The B-24 Liberator is a heavy bomber that was used during WWII. I've gotten to tour the _Ole 927_ and it's an amazing aircraft. It's got a lot of excellent virtues which make it one of my favorite planes ever, but it's drawbacks are that it's an extremely difficult plane to fly, with very heavy controls, and it has a bad tendency to catch on fire. Since it was a lot lighter than the B-17 Fortress (which is what most people think of when they think WWII plane), it took damage more easily, but it also got the job done much faster in the right conditions.

Just because I could, I put Matthew on the crew of the famous Canadian pilot K.O. Moore. No shit, this pilot's real name is literally the abbreviation for knock out...which is exactly what he did to two German U-boats on one flight on June 8, 1944, in the span of 22 minutes. Now a days, that doesn't sound so impressive, but back in the 40s, planes didn't have radar. This pilot took a very heavy, difficult to maneuver plane and spotted the shadow of a submarine on the ocean _at night_ from a very high altitude. Not only did he hit that one (which was a little like finding a needle in a haystack) but he then happened upon _another_ one, pulled off a pretty spectacular maneuver, and bombed the hell out of a _second_ one. Needless to say, he became the most decorated Canadian airman and set an awesome aviation record that wasn't ever beaten. So yay for Canada!

Oh, and America changed his ringtone on England's phone to be _I Need a Hero_, which most people know from the soundtrack of Shrek. If you haven't heard it, check it out on youtube because it's a very Alfred-esque type theme song, lolz.


End file.
